Wyoming Trails

by Lauran Paine

  “Yeah,” Otto grunted. “Well, we haven’t had any serious Indian trouble around here in five years. They’ve been pushed farther west.” He lifted the reins, turned his horse. “I guess there’s nothing to worry about, Shan. I’ll be back about dawn. We’ve got lots of work to do before your missus gets back.”

  Shan watched Otto lope to the road, swing southward, and disappear. He sent the girl back to clean the cabin, went over where the horses were, made hobbles, and turned them loose to graze. By then it was late afternoon, the sky was all speckled looking and red, each mark upon it like a horse’s hoof. He poked around the barn rubble until it was too dark to see, then returned to the cabin. Inside it was as dark as a tomb. He could make out the Indian girl’s silhouette over by the stove. Knowing she was watching him, he growled something inaudible, went to the table, and lit the lamp. She followed each movement with her eyes. Her face remained smoothly expressionless. He pointed to the stove.

  “Make fire,” he said. “Make something to eat.”

  But it was useless and he knew it. Even if she understood, which he doubted, she would not move so long as he was there to watch her, so he made supper, poured two cups of coffee, and dished up two plates of food, set them on the table with the implements, and motioned her forward. “Sit down,” he said, enunciating with exaggerated clearness. “Eat!”

  She sat down but did not eat. Her eyes followed every move he made. When he tilted the coffee cup back, their eyes met over its rim. He set the cup down hard.

  “Damn you, quit that staring and eat!”

  She ate. She bowed her head until lamplight showed blue-black in the hair of her temples, used her fingers instead of the spoon beside her plate, and ate. It dawned on Shan she did not know how one ate at a table.

  He arose, filled his pipe with shag, lit it, got a pencil and some paper, and returned to the table, sat hunched over, and began a letter to Sarahlee. The only sound in the cabin was of the pencil pushing steadily across the page. He wrote of the burned barn, the Indians he’d killed, the captive Indian girl. He looked up. She was watching the pencil move over the paper, round-eyed, lips parted, hands barely visible over the rim of the table. He put the pencil down and gazed at her. The futility of speaking held him silent. What was she thinking? What did Indians think, anyway? Maybe he’d killed her husband. He unconsciously glanced at her fingers, then he smiled to himself. Where would she wear a wedding band—probably through her nose.

  When she raised her face, looked into his eyes, she seemed intelligent, but how could you tell? He felt the vast gulf between them and frowned down at the half-finished letter. What difference did it make, wise or stupid, she was a squaw-Indian, about like a she-wolf, a mare horse, or a bitch dog. He went back to writing the letter.

  When it was late, the letter finished, he made a pallet on the floor by the stove and told her by motions to lie down. She did, fully clothed and without once looking away from him. He reloaded his pipe and sat uneasily on the edge of the bed. Should he tie her? Would she cut his throat while he slept, shoot him—maybe take his scalp and ride away beating her breast or whatever squaws did when they avenged someone. He sucked on the pipe and frowned at the wall, then he got up, picked up the carbine, and unloaded it, put the cartridges in his pocket, and took his skinning and cutting knives from the shelf by the stove and laid them on the bed. After that he kicked his boots off and lay down, still wearing the pistol. When his pipe went out, he looked down at her but she was twisted away from him, face averted. He watched her for a while, then raised up on one elbow, blew down the lamp chimney, and plunged the cabin into darkness. Lying back with the comforting bulge of the pistol near his arm, he smiled grimly. She wouldn’t cut his throat because he wouldn’t go to sleep.

  He thought of Sarahlee, of the burned barn, and of Otto—Otto. He wished he was like Otto. Steady, always knowing exactly what to do and how to do it. Coyotes howled outside. He turned his head and looked down. She was asleep. The little bitch wildcat was asleep just like she was at home—in her own tepee or hovel or whatever she lived in. He scratched his head, wiggled his toes, and sighed. When he fell asleep, he had no knowledge of doing it until he opened his eyes, moved them across the ceiling, then swiftly, in alarm, dropped them to the pallet. She wasn’t there.

  Chapter Nine

  Shan swung off the bed, feeling for his gun, seeing the knives undisturbed, tugged his boots on, and looked in the corner where he kept the carbine. It hadn’t been moved; beside it lay the Indian clothing he’d stripped from the dead buck. He straightened up frowning, then it struck him—the horses!

  He burst outside and halted with the new sun slanting downward into his eyes. There they were, out a ways, grazing, hopping from time to time with their hobbles. He turned away from the sun. Where was the squaw, then? He went back to the cabin door and quartered a little looking for sign, found it, small moccasin tracks in the churned dust. He was moving to track after them when he saw her. She’d been over to the spring and her hair was shiny with a high gloss. Her face, as smooth as ever, glistened from the cold water. She hesitated at sight of him, then walked past and into the cabin. He scratched his head again, but harder.

  He washed and made breakfast, put it on two plates as he’d done the night before, and this time he did not have to tell her to eat. She used the spoon as though she’d secretly practiced with it. After breakfast, he hauled a bucket of water, set up the dishpan, and showed her how to wash the utensils. She plunged her arms into the water and soaked both sleeves. He swore at her, reached down, and yanked the sleeves up past her elbows. Her flesh was firm and warm, lighter where it had been protected from the sun. He stood, looking at her, but she did not look up. He was amazed at the smallness of her arms, at the slightness, the fineness of her bones, the milky texture of her skin. The creak and groan of a wagon roused him. It would be Otto approaching. He took tools—an ax, several wedges, a hatchet, and a spade—and waited by the washstand beyond the door. Otto greeted him with a slow nod.

  “Still got the squaw or’d she run off?”

  “Still got her,” Shan said, climbing into the wagon. “I taught her how to wash dishes, Otto. By the time Sarahlee gets back, she’ll be a real help around the place.”

  “Maybe. I never liked having them around. Like a biting dog or a spoiled mule, work for you for ten years, then one day up and stick a knife through your guts.”

  “Aw,” Shan scoffed, “she’s too little.”

  Otto drove toward the distant forest without replying. For a week they did nothing but haul logs. After that they notched, peeled, adzed, and hoisted them into place. The squaw cooked for them, and two days in a row Mrs. Muller rode over with Otto. She showed the girl how to make simple things like hoecakes, fried meat, and boiled greens. She was interested in the girl, taught her ten words of common English, and told Shan he should teach her more, that she was very intelligent, but that she would be worthless to Sarahlee if she didn’t know English. Shan said he would, and forgot about it. When he went to bed every night, he died with exhaustion. Only once did the little Indian come into his mind. That was the evening he went down behind the new barn to the spring box to take a bath. He was standing there, stark naked, moon glow glistening over his wet body, rubbing vigorously with the lye soap Mrs. Muller had brought over, when he turned and saw her standing in the dark gloom at the corner of the barn.

  He was more chagrined than angry. “Get out of here!” he yelled, bent down, caught up a clod, and flung it. It struck over her head, powdered her hair with dust. “You red bitch, get out of here!” She faded into the night without a sound but Shan didn’t forget and wouldn’t look at her until near the end of the second week. When he told Otto, the older man laughed softly, then looked thoughtful, began watching the girl when Shan was around.

  They were working on shakes for the roof. She brought them cold water like Mrs. Muller had taught her to do, set the bucket do
wn, and said: “Gold watern.”

  It struck Shan as funny and he picked up the dipper and held it out. “Here, Otto, have some gold watern.”

  Otto smiled, drank, put the dipper back in the bucket, and looked up at the girl. “What’s your name?” he asked.

  She shook her head. Mrs. Muller had taught her to do that when she didn’t understand. Otto kept gazing at her.

  “She ought to have a name,” he said, stopped working. “I can’t figure out why she hasn’t run off, Shan.”

  “Why should she? She’s got a roof, plenty to eat, doesn’t have to work hard.”

  “Yes, but they aren’t like us. Those things don’t mean a lot to an Indian.”

  “Well, maybe she figures I didn’t kill her when I should have, and she owes me something.”

  “It might be that,” Otto said, reaching for the hatchet. He looked thoughtful. “Well, call her Jane or Mary. That’s what we usually name filly colts when they’re born … Christian names.”

  She became Mary.

  Otto went to town the end of the third week. His wife wanted flour and Shan’s blower needed new bellows so they could forge iron rings and tholes for the new barn, which was almost completed. It shone with newness, was richly fragrant of the forest, the running sap, and during the course of its construction they had broken Shan’s Indian horses to harness. While Otto was gone, Shan whittled pegs and drove them into the mid baulk for harness and the saddle he was using—the one he’d gotten from the Indians and had pulled the gewgaw tacks out of—and for the new pitchfork Otto would bring back from Tico.

  It was a massive and beautiful barn to Shan. He walked through it, whistling, glowing with sweat and steely muscles. His flanks were lean from labor, his lungs stronger than ever.

  When Otto returned, he had a letter from Sarahlee. It was soiled from much handling and limp. As soon as Shan got it, he sat down in the dust, rested his back against the barn, and read it. There were trodden weeds around him and a carpet of tall grass swept away as far as one could see in every direction. The time for haying wasn’t far off.

  Otto had brought Mrs. Muller back with him. They planned on spending the night at the cabin, taking Shan back with them in the morning to brand and mark the cattle.

  High on the roof Otto nailed shakes, trimmed edges, put the finishing touches on, and every once in a while he’d look up at the sky with a critically anxious expression. When he was getting ready to descend, he glanced over the side and saw Shan holding the letter with both fists like it was trying to bite him. His head was bent in concentration and a big lock of dark hair hung low over his forehead. His lips were pursed as though in pain.

  “What’s it say?” Otto called down. “When’s she coming back?”

  Shan looked out around the paper at Otto who was coming down the ladder. “Her paw’s sick. She doesn’t know when she’ll be back. Maybe next month.”

  Otto was holding the ladder with one hand. He shook his head. “Sorry to hear that,” he said, looking straight at Shan. “Well, we got the barn finished … tell her that in the next letter, Shan.” He moved closer in the hot sunlight, sank down against the barn, staring straight ahead. “A few more weeks. If it can’t be helped, son, why I expect you don’t want to get upset about it.”

  Shan ground the letter in one big fist. “The hell I don’t,” he said. “I got a wife and I haven’t got a wife. I waited all my life … goddammit!”

  Otto got up, dusted the seat of his pants. “Those weeks’ll fly by, Shan, you’ll see. We start working the cattle tomorrow. I figure that’s going to take a full week. Then we’ve got to drive them way out on the range, and cut out those hundred and eight heifers.” He started to move toward the cabin. “Come on, Shan, let’s eat. You’re going to be surprised how fast those weeks’ll go by.”

  Mrs. Muller’s face grew long when Shan told her what Sarahlee had written. She and Mary fed them and there was very little talk. Afterward, Shan and Otto went out to hook up the wagon. They loaded the tools in it, and Otto said he thought Shan ought to drive his top buggy because there wasn’t enough room in the wagon for all of them. Shan got the mare, harnessed her, and hooked her between the shafts. When Mrs. Muller and Mary came out, the girl went straight to the buggy and climbed in. Shan looked at her in displeasure for a moment, then raised his voice.

  “Hey, Otto, why don’t you ride with me, and the squaw can ride with Mrs. Muller?”

  Otto climbed down. His wife leaned over and sharply said something to him. He hesitated, looking up at her, then trudged back to the buggy. Shan spoke the girl’s name and gestured toward the wagon. She got down and went forward, climbed up beside Mrs. Muller and the wagon moved out.

  Otto lit his little pipe and leaned back. “Shan,” he said quietly, “Georgia says you shouldn’t call her a squaw.”

  Shan looked at the trim, slight body high on the wagon seat far ahead and frowned. Otto was right. Now that she could understand some English, it probably wasn’t nice to call her that, probably hurt her feelings, too, Shan thought, and he didn’t want to do that, not after the way she’d pitched in without a word and worked as hard as any of them. He made no reply.

  “It’s all right with me,” Otto went on, “only Georgia don’t think you ought to.”

  “She’s right,” Shan said, and fell silent until they were well down the road toward Mullers’, then he blew out a big breath and shook himself like a dog coming out of a creek. “I should’ve married an orphan like I am, Otto. There wouldn’t be any paw to get sick then.”

  Otto spat and gazed at the sky. “Three weeks from now you’ll wonder where the time went.” He squinted his eyes. “If we don’t get a rain pretty soon, we’re going to have trouble this year.”

  Shan looked at the profusion of waving grass all around them. “Looks like we’ve got enough feed to me, Otto.”

  “Now, yes. We didn’t get a drop of rain in April. This grass’ll start to wither within another week or so … by July there won’t be a blade left for the cattle to graze off. By August they’ll be eating dust.” Otto’s pipe bubbled. “It keeps me awake nights, thinking about it.”

  Shan heard without heeding. He was thinking of Sarahlee, of the column of her neck, how that V in her throat plunged down into the white blouse under that little artilleryman’s jacket, swelled, thrusting out. He was holding the lines so hard his fingers were sweat-slippery. The way light hung and shimmered in her hair. The way she looked distantly at him when he swore. How she looked when she laughed and the way she rode a horse, the bigness of her. God, keep her for me … Protect her like hell!

  Shan and Otto put up the horses while Mrs. Muller took Mary into the house. There were tools to put away, chores to do. By the time the men headed toward the house, there was a long darkening creeping over from the horizon. Mrs. Muller met them at the door with a funny little smile. She acted flustered and Otto put the milk bucket down and blinked at her with a quizzical expression. She beckoned them into the kitchen and Shan saw the whiskey jug on the table among the plates. He crossed the room and helped himself. It burned like hot coal all the way down but brightened his mood. Otto came over, poured himself a drink, and downed it.

  “What’re you up to?” he asked his wife.

  When she made no answer, both men turned to look at her. At that moment Mary entered the kitchen from the front of the house. Otto looked over and said: “Well!” Shan turned his head, too.

  Mary wasn’t wearing her beaded dress. She had on a gingham one that seemed to hang low and close. It wasn’t particularly attractive, that dress, but it clung and in Shan’s mind his squaw was suddenly, astoundingly beautiful. There was no other word for it. She was a person, a human being. The neckline was primly high and square but the thrusting below it was unmistakable. Farther down the dress flattened out, fell inward a little over flat muscles. Mrs. Muller had gathered Mary’s abundance of ebo
ny hair up tightly behind her head, tied a ribbon around it, and left the residue to ripple down her back. Shan’s ears roared with a surge of blood. He got red and confused and turned away from her, and so did not notice the way her black eyes followed him.

  “See,” Mrs. Muller said triumphantly, “she’s pretty. You hadn’t ought to call her a squaw.”

  Shan poured another glass of whiskey and his hand shook.

  “Now let’s eat,” Otto said. He was frowning just the smallest bit and watching Shan.

  At supper Mary was silent as usual. She had learned from observation, and Mrs. Muller, how to handle a knife and fork. Shan looked at her once when her head was bowed and noticed something he’d never seen before. The girl had brushed her hair, which she did as often as she could, until it shone, parted it evenly down the middle, and right down the part she’d daubed something red, like rouge. He was fascinated and finally said something about it to Otto.

  “They do that,” Otto said. “Most of them. It’s sort of dress-up to them.”

  The meal continued, and afterward they talked a little, while the women did the dishes, cleaned up. Otto urged Shan to have a final drink before they retired. It warmed him, made him drop off to sleep as soon as he hit the bed later on. It also made him dream.

  First it was Sarahlee. She was bareheaded, bare-armed, even barefooted. She was holding him close and laughing up into his face. Teasing him about something he couldn’t understand. He threw his arms around her, felt the muscles in his arms bulge, and saw the hurt in her eyes. Her heavy lips got twisted and ugly and she fought him, went away from him, and stayed away. When she finally came back, she slapped him—hard—then she turned and ran. He chased her, caught her close to the new barn, threw her down in the grass, and held her. She slapped him again, so hard he closed his eyes. When he opened them again, it wasn’t Sarahlee—it was Mary—and she didn’t slap him. Didn’t struggle at all. He watched the sunlight burn in her ebony hair, saw how round, how unblinking and still her eyes were. The way her mouth was open a little, the teeth showing white, small, and strong. Then he awakened and it was daylight out.